


When You Get a Taste for It

by voodoochild



Category: Ashes to Ashes
Genre: Age Play, Community: kink_bingo, Daddy Issues, Daddy Kink, F/M, Kink Meme, Manipulation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-21
Updated: 2010-06-21
Packaged: 2017-10-10 05:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,039
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/96063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/voodoochild/pseuds/voodoochild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Emotion is an affect for Jim Keats, or so he thinks. Other things are not. (Spoilers for 3.06, consider yourself warned.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	When You Get a Taste for It

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kink_bingo, for the prompt "ageplay". Originally posted at the Ashes to Ashes Kink Meme, for the prompt "Alex/Keats, one more log on the fire of Alex's daddy issues". Much love to **petra** and **thatyourefuse** for the encouragement and lack of shaming.

She answers the door in a grey tunic that slides down one shoulder and ripped leggings, half-"I don't give a toss who sees me" and half "I don't want anyone to see me like this". He can scarcely blame her; it was a hell of a day. With the rioting, with Chris and Ray coming out bruised and battered, with Viv gone. The way Gene's shouted at anyone within ten feet and the way Shaz hasn't let anyone out of her sight. Alex has been the only one holding it together in the hours after the rioting ended, and it seems to have finally taken its toll.

While he's still almost vibrating with satisfaction, she looks like she could fly apart.

"Jim, I don't really feel up to company right now."

She almost looks like she believes it. Except her body language is screaming openness, arm on the door by his head, and she's biting her lip the way she does when she's trying to stop from saying what she means.

_I'm going to break apart and I need someone to put me back together._

"Are you sure?" he asks, remembering to put the right amount of concern into his voice.

"I - I think-" A breath, trying to disguise how her voice is shaking, and he wants to walk inside, lock the door, and not let her out until she's herself again. It's a fine line between breaking her down deliberately - to build her back up stronger, better - and something that isn't him doing the breaking. "Come in, please."

He accepts the invitation, and once he's inside with the door closed, she seems to wilt. Her hands flutter abstractedly toward the (surprisingly) unopened bottle of wine on the table.

"I was just going to get pissed. Seemed the thing to do."

She won't look at him, and he can't have that. He captures her right hand in his left, interlacing their fingers, and she's cold. His other hand tips her chin up with one finger, stroking along the skin of her jaw. It passes over the bite mark that's half-faded, half covered by makeup - two nights ago, their first time - and she shivers.

"Alex. Are you drinking because you need to or drinking because you think you ought to?"

"I don't know."

The look on her face is so _lost_, and he thinks she couldn't elaborate for him if she tried. She's practically crying out for someone to hold her, pet her, tell her everything's going to work out. She's a sight to behold when she's in control, but this? This is practically irresistible, almost blanket permission to twist and pull at emotions that have stayed long buried (and as a psychologist, she should know better than to rely on alcoholism and repression).

"Sweetheart, come here," he says, folding her into his arms, She tucks her head under his chin, hiding herself in him, smaller without her heels and her hair and her long coats she wears to keep up with the boys. "You don't have to escape into a bottle of wine every time you have a bad day. You're better than that."

It's as if the words have broken the seal on her, and she starts to quietly sob into his chest. Little hiccupping noises, and he gently steers her over to the couch, kicking off his shoes and pulling her down with him. He does all the things you're supposed to do with crying women, strokes her hair and kisses her forehead and holds her close, and he doesn't deny there's an appeal to it. He doesn't understand why, throughout history, men have been completely unable to deal with outpouring of emotion like this.

It's a gift.

It says nothing less than "I trust you unquestioningly to see me at my most vulnerable", and he loves her for it. True, human emotion, and it's been a while, but as he looks down at her, curled around him, he realizes he rather missed it. He can manufacture all he wants, but there is no substitute for the way his eyes are drawn to her, the way his stomach turns at the thought of her harmed.

He brushes sweat-soaked hair off her forehead and gently urges her head up. "Can you look at me, Alex? There's a girl - you're safe here, you know that, right?"

"I know - I do, But I just-"

She can't say it, and he can't blame her. This isn't something anyone likes confronting about themselves - the pure, childish need to be held and rocked and reassured.

"But nothing. I know, you're hurting. And I know you need to let go and trust someone to catch you. Do you trust me to do that?

It's a headtrip and a half, and combined with his earlier victory, he's in danger of bursting out into delighted laughter. It would be so easy to steamroller her, just pick her up, carry her to her bedroom, and fuck her the way he's been thinking of doing since he showed up here. But no, this is no fun at all without her express consent, and he won't have her crying that she's been taken advantage of. More than that, he genuinely wants to help, because he wants her strong and brassy and brilliant by his side, not curled up crying like a child. A worthy partner is what he's looking for; the moral copper inside her, not the eye candy apologist for Gene Hunt.

" . . . I trust you. That's one of the rules, right?"

He does laugh at that, the blatant attempt to please him. "Yes, sweetheart, it is. Very good. Now here's what I want you to do - I promise I'll take care of you, but if you need something, you'll have to speak up. Good girls don't get anything unless they ask nicely."

"All right. Could you - could you please-" She cuts herself off, frustrated and embarrassed, and he pulls her against him again, hands stroking up and down her back. Feels her relax against him, half-sprawled across his chest, murmuring nonsense into his shirt. Lifts her head - oh, those eyes, big and beautiful and _so_ lost - and tries again. "Keep touching me, please. Just like that."

"Of course I will. You're lovely like this."

She lets out a strangled cough that might, on another day, be a laugh, and rests two fingers on the horn-rims of his glasses. "I'm a mess."

"Shh. You're not. You're a brilliant copper who's had a terrible day on top of a terrible month. There's nothing wrong with letting someone take care of you once in a while."

And he demonstrates that for her, brushing her hair back off her face, drying the tears that have trickled down her cheeks. Unfastens the big, beaded necklace she's wearing and lays it on the table, removing her bracelets as well. She's still wearing her ridiculous fuzzy socks, and he eases her onto her back, sliding out from under her and kneeling on the floor. She watches him, cat-green eyes in the dark, as he takes her socks off, running his fingers over the edge of her tights and looks up at her.

"On or off?"

"Off," she whispers, but the important thing is, she's making decisions.

"All right. Lift up."

He lets her steady herself on his shoulders and moves his hands to her hips, peeling the tights down her hips. His hands skim the curve of her arse, narrow down her thighs, and stop at her calves as he balances one leg, then the other, and pulls the tights off. She hesitates for a moment, then wriggles out of her bra - an utterly feminine motion that he wasn't sure was possible - leaving herself in just the tunic and her knickers. She tugs insistently on his hand and he rises to his feet, letting her guide him to sit on the couch, where she straddles him, resting her head against his chest.

Her voice is still soft, but steadier, more certain, than it was. "Will you do something for me?"

"Name it," he says, arms around her waist. "Anything."

"I need you to make me come."

He's not sure, but he thinks he might have involuntarily stopped breathing. There's following his instructions, and then there's surrender, and this is most certainly the latter. It's dizzying, her utter submission, and he knows the only reason she's even asking is because she's so emotionally drained right now. She just can't be ashamed any more, there's no room.

And Christ, when she puts it like that . . .

"Oh, Alex, you don't ever need to ask me for that," he says, tracing the neckline of her tunic where it cuts away to her back. "What's the matter, sweetheart? Too wound up? So tense and hurting and tired that you're shaking - I can feel it now. Shhh, I'll take care of you. I will."

She'd initially kept some distance between them, straddled his legs and tried not to lie fully on top of him, but he pulls her close. She gives a small cry when she feels his erection right where she needs it, but he keeps the barrier of her knickers and his trousers between them. He gives her the contact she wants, though, grinding and thrusting against her, feeling her knickers slowly begin to soak through. Her gasps and shudders have turned into beautifully broken moans, back arching as she works herself against him. When he can feel her start to pick up speed, he works a hand between them and starts to slowly rub her clit through the cotton.

"You're my girl, aren't you, Alex? My best girl, hot and wet and crying just for me."

Alex shudders, at that, and nods, burying her face in his neck. "Please, oh - I need it. I need it."

"Who are you, baby? Who do you belong to?"

His fingers trace her opening, and she wails, bucking up hard against him. "You - I'm yours."

It's hardly any time at all before she's coming apart completely, fucking herself on his fingers and sobbing _"need you, please, Daddy, please"_. And that's it, he can't hold back any longer, unzipping his trousers and moving her knickers to the side. She sinks down on him sharp and fast, down to the base of his cock and tight as a vise. He holds her there, just to hear her moan of _"oh, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me"_, and then releases her to let her work herself on him. One hand is on her breast, gently squeezing in time with his thrusts, and his other hand is on her face, so that he can see her.

Her eyes are impossibly dark and wide, so innocent even though she's drenched in sweat and sex and weariness, and he could tear her apart right now. It'd be so easy. Could hiss filth and truth in her ear, tell her he knows about Evan White and Tim Price and Gene Hunt and how all she wants to do is fuck the pain away. Abandonment issues are good, daddy issues are better, but she's making sodding _art_ out of the combination.

He decides to let her come easy, instead of drawing it out. She has been a good girl, after all. Licks a wet stripe up the column of her neck and bites down right under her jaw. She coils up like a spring and comes for him sweet and gasping, drawn-tight around him. Draws out aftershocks as he fucks up into her and climaxes himself, his low moan making her shudder and cling to him.

When they've both caught their breath, Jim kicks out of his trousers and gets to his feet. Alex, with her legs still around his waist, holds on tight while he carries her to her bedroom. He almost protests when she pulls him into bed next to her - he doesn't stay, not usually, that's their agreement - but he shrugs out of his shirt and curls up next to her. As she sleepily and half-bemusedly explores his bared skin (she's never seen it before - he doesn't like shedding his armor), he smiles.

She's his, pure and simple. Together, they're going to burn the world down.


End file.
